


Together We Ride (To Our Coffee Breaks)

by timehopper



Series: Drabble Collections [3]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Body Worship, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Daddy Kink, Dark Claude von Riegan, F/F, F/M, Flowers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kissing, Laughter, Lovers To Enemies, M/M, Poisoning, Scars, Vaginal Fingering, Yandere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22271851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timehopper/pseuds/timehopper
Summary: A collection of prompts, drabbles, ficlets and requests focusing on the characters in various Fire Emblem games. Each "chapter" is tagged with the ship, prompt, and SFW/NSFW.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert, Dorothea Arnault/Edelgard von Hresvelg, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Claude von Riegan, Marianne von Edmund/Hilda Valentine Goneril, Sylvain Jose Gautier & Claude von Riegan, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, Sylvain Jose Gautier/Mercedes von Martritz
Series: Drabble Collections [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1163048
Comments: 43
Kudos: 122





	1. [FE3H] Hilda/Marianne: Comfort | SFW

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Welcome to my collection of Fire Emblem drabbles. This is for all the stories I write that are too short to publish as works on their own. Many of these will be by request, and many are things are just for fun. Some even might be stories I've written years ago! 
> 
> Everything will be tagged with characters, ships, and prompts. If there's something in particular you're looking for, it shouldn't be too hard to find. :) 
> 
> If you're wondering about the title of this collection: I do most of my drabble-writing at cafes or on my breaks at work. My other drabble collections are named similarly, and it's kind of become a running thing with me. ;)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #1 - [ Hilda/Marianne: Comfort | SFW]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for HildaMari Week on Twitter! This was for Day 4: Comfort, but it could honestly work for a few of the days... check out the prompt list [here](https://twitter.com/marihildaweek/status/1200228870529662976)! There's been so much good content already, please check out the #marihildaweek tag on twitter too!
> 
> ....This was meant to be a quick cute and fun drabble, but it turned sad the minute I started working on it... oops. But it ends happily, I sweat!!
> 
> I love these two so much...

“Can I kiss you?” 

The question come out of nowhere. It catches Marianne off-guard, and she turns, her eyes wide beneath too-long bangs. She stares at Hilda, voice and hands and shoulders trembling. “I’m… sorry?” 

“I want to kiss you,” Hilda repeats. Her smile is soft as she looks up at the sky, eyes turned toward the moon. She doesn’t look at Marianne, but Marianne can hardly find it in her to mind. Hilda looks pretty like this, painted in silver light. Too pretty to waste her time on someone like Marianne. 

She’s so selfish, wanting to keep her here like this. Wanting to pretend that she deserves this, even when she knows she doesn’t.

“Ugh, can you stop that?” Hilda’s tone is light-hearted and joking, like it so often is, but Marainne flinches all the same. “I can practically hear the wheels turning in your head.” Hilda still doesn’t turn to face Marianne, but the smile remains on her face. “Oh, um…” Marianne fidgets. “Sorry.” 

“No, no. Don’t apologize. I should be the one saying sorry for putting you on the spot like this.” Now, at last, she faces Marianne fully. Hilda pushes off from where she had been leaning against the balcony’s edge and steps forward, just one _click_ of her heels. She’s close enough Marianne can warmth seeping through her clothes. 

And she can’t help it; Marianne looks down, unable to meet those stunning, shimmering eyes. “N-no, you don’t need to… I just…” 

“I know.” Hilda steps forward, reaches for Marianne’s face. Her touch is gentle, warm fingertips sliding against Marianne’s cool cheek until they can brush a lock of hair behind her ear. Hilda tilts her face up, just the slightest bit - enough that she can get a better look and that Marianne can still look away if she so chooses. 

“It’s okay.” Hilda’s voice is just as soft as her touch. Marianne tries to meet her eyes - does, for a second - but she can’t. Hilda’s gaze is too kind, too hopeful. There’s nothing Marianne wants more than to let Hilda hold her, let Hilda kiss her, let Hilda be the warm, reassuring presence she has already become, but she knows - knows in the pit of her heart, the cursed lines of her crest - that she can’t. Hilda would only suffer for it; and yet she persists, like she can’t see each and every one of Marianne’s flaws, plain as day and worn on her sleeve. 

Marianne bites her lip and Hilda laughs, sad despite the gentle smile on her face. “You can say no.” 

Marianne could cry. She almost does, but the years of practice she’s had holding back tears do not betray her now. Still, her voice wavers and fails her, like it so often does. “I…” 

Hilda waits. She withdraws her hand, slowly, and Marianne aches for her touch. She watches as that soft, gentle, kind hand entwines itself with its twin, fingers steepled as Hilda awaits Marianne’s answer. She’s the very picture of grace. 

“I… I want to.” Marianne swallows thickly. Tears burn at the corners of her eyes, but she blinks them back, banishes them. “K-kiss you, I mean.” 

She looks down at her feet and almost misses Hilda’s smile, bright as it is in her peripheral vision. Hilda reaches for her hands, takes them in hers, and leans forward…

But Marianne stops her, slowly pulling one hand free of Hilda’s grasp to place it gently on her chest. Hilda pauses; she’s surprised - it’s clear in her wide, sparkling eyes - but she doesn’t push further. 

“I want to kiss you…” Marianne whispers. She trembles. “But I can’t. I…” 

Hilda squeezes her one hand, and Marianne looks up. Pity and heartbreak is written all over her face, in the crease of her brow and the slant of her pink-painted lips. “I can’t let you lower yourself like this. You’re too…” _Perfect. Kind. Beautiful._ “I would bring you nothing but trouble and misery.” 

The noise Hilda makes startles Marianne, and she flinches. Was that a laugh? A sob? She can’t tell, but she doesn’t have to think about it for very long; Hilda squeezes her hand again and places the other over the one still on her chest.

“Oh, Marianne,” she says. “You should know by now that I think the world of you. You could never bring _anyone_ misery, even if you tried.” She looks down at their clasped hands. “Especially not me. I… I like you too much.” 

Marianne remains silent. Her fingers curl; Hilda squeezes them. She looks up, and for a moment, it looks as if Hilda is on the verge of tears, too. “I’ve liked you for a long time. Well… it’s more than just _like._ You…” She lifts Marianne’s hand from her chest and pulls it to her lips. She can feel Hilda's breath brush over her skin. “You’re so sweet, Marianne. You always put others before yourself. You’re quiet, self-sacrificing, smart… and beautiful. I mean… Wow. I…” Hilda’s voice shakes as she laughs. Marianne’s heart thrums heavily against her chest. “I just… want you to know how special you are. To everyone. But especially to me. You mean the _world_ to me." 

She kisses Marianne’s knuckle, then slowly, reluctantly, lets go of her hand. Marianne whimpers; her fingers twitch with indecision. She wants so badly to take Hilda’s hand again, to hold it and never let go, but she’s afraid - so afraid -

So afraid of losing her, this wonderful woman, who is kind and sweet and caring and would never, ever do anything to hurt or upset Marianne. Afraid of losing the one person who has come to mean the world to her, too; who would cast aside everything just for the chance to make Marianne smile.

And she can’t lose that. Even if she doesn’t deserve it. So she allows this, allows Hilda to part the curtain, to cast aside the veil keeping Marianne from reaching out and taking her hand. She finally, finally, allows Hilda to be the comfort she has always offered. 

Marianne smiles as she reaches out. 

“Please kiss me,” she whispers. 

And Hilda does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to make a request, please check my [writing blog](https://intim3ate.tumblr.com) and submit there (though I can't guarantee I'll be able to do everything!). I also post WIPs and snippets/progress/previews of other things I'm working on!
> 
> If you enjoyed this and would like to see more, have a chat, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r). And  
> if you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right [here](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1355219789560471554). Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	2. [FE3H] Caspar/Ashe: Laughter | SFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #2 - [ Caspar/Ashe: Laughter | SFW ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tagged this collection with "Daddy Kink" because of this fic, but I PROMISE it's just a silly joke and not an actual thing here!! It's mostly just as content warning for anyone who might be uncomfortable, even with just a mention.
> 
> Read, write, and tag responsibly, friends!

Ashe loves it when Caspar gets like this with him. Hands all over his body, in his hair, on his neck, under his shirt, roaming and pressing and pinning him to the wall. It takes everything he has just to stay upright, but even then, it’s hardly necessary; Caspar makes sure to hold him up, keep him steady even when his knees go weak. 

The door shuts behind them. Not a moment later, Ashe gasps as his back hits it and. Caspar’s lips find his, hot and insistent. Ashe kisses him back hungrily, grabbing for any inch of his boyfriend he can reach and then some. 

Caspar smiles against Ashe’s lips just a moment before he moves away to kiss a trail across his cheek. He moves down his jaw, past it to his neck, teeth dragging as he goes. It tickles; Ashe laughs breathlessly and squirms beneath him. He can feel Caspar's laughter, too, hot and light on his skin, and he opens his eyes to look down at him, to watch him, see his beautiful smile, when--

“Caspar!” 

Caspar either ignores him or doesn’t register his name being called. He sinks his teeth into Ashe’s neck and Ashe cries out, a wave of heat blossoming and blooming outward from where lips meet skin. He jerks, twitches, grasps at nothing. He wants to melt, to let Caspar have him, have whatever he wants, but he can't, he  _ can't _ , because… 

“Caspar, please -- wait --”

This time, Caspar pulls away immediately, eyes wide as he grips Ashe’s face. “What? What is it, Ashe? Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” 

“No, I’m fine,” Ashe says on a breath. He’s better than fine, really, but that should be obvious enough by the smile on his face and the flush on his cheeks. “Just…” 

He lifts a shaky hand and points behind Caspar, to their bed. Caspar turns around, and…

“Mrow!”

Ashe laughs. “Not in front of Loog!” 

There's a moment of absurdity in which Caspar's mind struggles to catch up to the situation, but soon enough his face breaks into a grin and he laughs, high-pitched and wonderful. 

Caspar gently lowers Ashe to the ground, checks to make sure he's stable, and moves toward the bed. He sits down on its edge, no more than two feet from where Loog perches on the pillows, and pulls the cat onto his lap. Ashe follows, wrapping an arm around his boyfriend’s middle as he sidles up beside him. 

“He probably snuck in while we were out,” Ashe volunteers, knowing the question is more than likely on the top of Caspar's tongue. 

Caspar nods. He makes kissing sounds at the cat, puckering his lips as he says, “Probably. Bad kitty, sneaking in when you know you're not allowed in here.” 

He lifts the cat so that it’s at his eye level. Loog meows impudently, and Caspar's face softens from feigned annoyance to adoring pout. “Aww, I can't stay mad at you," he says. Then, in his silliest baby-voice, adds, "I’m sowwy, Woog! Was Daddy about to scaw you for wife? Yes he was, yes he was…” 

Cute as his boyfriend is, a hot flush cascades over Ashe. His face goes beet-red and buries it in both hands. “I wish you wouldn’t call yourself that.” 

“Huh? Call myself what? ‘Daddy?’ Why not?” Caspar looks completely and utterly confused, as if he has no idea why Ashe wouldn’t want to hear him call himself that while they were sitting on the bed, about a half-minute away from going back to feeling each other up. “Uh, hello, Ashe. I  _ am _ his daddy. We both are.” 

“Caspar, please…” 

He studies Ashe another moment, and then something finally seems to click into place. Caspar's eyes go wide as dinner plates, and he very nearly drops Loog. “Oh!" he says. " _ Oh _ ! Right! That! Yeah. We don’t want Loog to know the  _ other _ thing that means.” He taps his temple like he’s just insinuated some clever secret. The gesture is something he has apparently picked up from one of their friends, though Ashe could probably never name who, specifically. “Good thinking, Ashe. He’s a pretty impressionable cat. Now c’mon, Loog, let’s get you outside…”   


He stands up and cradles Loog in his arms as he carries the poor cat to the door. It’s an… odd sight, Caspar with his hair mussed and cheeks flushed red, carrying their cat with its legs all akimbo. Ashe can't help but smile fondly and wonder, not for the first time, how he managed to get so lucky. 

“All right, you naughty cat, get outta here. No, no, don’t you look at me with those big, sad eyes! You can come back in when your  _ papas _ are all done.” He turns and winks at Ashe with the biggest, dopiest grin on his face, and Ashe is torn between swooning and burying his face in his hands. Bless Caspar’s heart, he tries. He’s perfect. 

Caspar toes the door open, puts Loog down on the opposite side, and closes it behind him to a chorus of meows. “And no whining! We’re not gonna let you in no matter how loud you are.”

He dusts his hands off and grins to himself. Then, hands on his hips, he turns back to Ashe. “Now, where were we…” 

Caspar is back on Ashe in an instant, scooping him up and laying him flat on the bed. He climbs over Ashe, one hand on his cheek and the other propped to hold his own weight. He looms down above Ashe, steady and unwavering even as a sultry - or what passes for sultry with Caspar - grin overtakes his features. “Ah, I remember. You had something to say about me calling myself Daddy…” 

Ashe's face splits open on a smile. He pushes Caspar’s face away and they both burst into laughter - so much so that Caspar pitches sideways and comes crashing down next to Ashe on the mattress with a  _ THWUMP _ . They reach for each other at the same time, quickly becoming a tangle of limbs as they muffle their laughter in each others’ necks. 

It takes some time for their raucous giggles to subside, but when they do, Ashe takes Caspar’s face in his hands and pulls him in for a sweet, lingering kiss. 

“Never say anything like that again,” he says as they part, and before Caspar can answer, he slides his hands beneath his boyfriend’s shirt and kisses him again. 

Ashe smiles against his lips. “Let me say it instead.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to make a request, please check my [writing blog](https://intim3ate.tumblr.com) and submit there (though I can't guarantee I'll be able to do everything!). I also post WIPs and snippets/progress/previews of other things I'm working on!
> 
> If you enjoyed this and would like to see more, have a chat, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r). And  
> if you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right [here](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1355219789560471554). Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	3. [FE3H] Sylvain/Mercedes: Longing | SFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #3 - [ Sylvain/Mercedes: Longing | SFW ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Sylvain Week 2020, with the prompt "Snowdrop." Prompts can be found [here](https://twitter.com/sylvain_week/status/1225261377960501248).
> 
> I'm really happy with this one. Sylcedes..... very good...

Frost still covers the hard-packed earth, painting the horizon in a glittering veneer of silver. Though the sun is low in the sky, it climbs steadily higher, illuminating Sylvain’s path forward as he urges his horse onward toward Fhirdiad. 

A strong wind blows in from the south. He lifts a hand from the reins to draw his cloak in tighter to his body, thankful for the thick fur it’s lined with. Even that isn’t enough to completely keep out the early-morning chill, though, and he shivers, just the slightest bit.

Sylvain looks up, eyes moving toward the rising sun. Winter has been long this year. Spring is coming, though slowly; and with it, so too will the change he has been seeking. 

The thought alone is enough to buoy his spirits. Sylvain feels a smile come over his face as he surveys the expanse of frostbitten fields before him, and he takes a deep breath of frigid northern air. It really is beautiful out here, he thinks, even in spite of how little there is to see. 

Something does catch his eye, however: something new, something different, and he tugs on the reins to slow his horse to a stop, wanting a closer look.

There: a speck of pure, solid white amid the sparkling silver. Sylvain slides from the saddle. No sooner to his feet touch the ground than he kneels, one knee against the icy ground. The cold very nearly seeps through his clothes, but he pays it no mind as he reaches for the tiny flower poking through the frost. 

He takes a tiny white petal between thumb and forefinger, rubbing it as if to study the texture, though he feels nothing through the thick leather of his glove. Still, the motion is soothing, and he finds himself reminded of running his fingers through soft, pale hair. 

In his mind’s eye, Mercedes looks up at him from where her head rests in his lap. She touches his hand to still it as it combs through her bangs, and Sylvain turns it over in her grasp. He entwines their fingers and lifts her hand to his lips, ghosting his lips over each knuckle, one at a time, kissing them each in turn with all the reverence she deserves. 

He hears her laugh echo in his ears, as comforting in its familiarity as her hand at his back, wordlessly telling him everything is going to be alright. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, missing her scent - fresh-baked bread clinging to her clothes, powdered sugar in her hair from a mishap in the kitchen, a sprig of lavender on her windowsill wafting over as he watches her sew. He laughs; it’s funny, somehow, to be reminded of lavender when it’s a snowdrop’s petals he twists in his fingers. 

Sylvain lets the flower go and pauses a moment, thinking. He peels off his glove, sets it aside to lay it on the ground, and reaches for the petals again. They’re are as soft as he’d imagined, and he finds himself smiling, again, thinking of Mercedes.

He reaches for the stem and gently, carefully, plucks the tiny flower from the ground. He holds it to eye level, lifting it to the sun to let the light frame it. It’s a shame, he thinks, that something so lovely could only have grown in a place like this, surrounded by nothing but ice and empty fields. 

He closes his hand around the flower, gentle so as not to damage the petals, and brings it close to his chest. His snowdrop is a hardy little thing, beautiful even in spite of where and how it grew. Sylvain wonders if that really means anything, in the end, and finds a tug of hope pull at his heart. Maybe it does, and maybe it doesn’t. But there is only one way to find out. 

He tucks the snowdrop into a small satchel strapped to his waist and turns his gaze forward, toward his destination. The journey will be long, yes, and cold, and lonely - but the flower will be safe. 

As he mounts his horse and spurs her onward, Sylvain smiles. Perhaps when this business in Fhirdiad is finished, he will at last pay Mercedes a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to make a request, please check my [writing blog](https://intim3ate.tumblr.com) and submit there (though I can't guarantee I'll be able to do everything!). I also post WIPs and snippets/progress/previews of other things I'm working on!
> 
> If you enjoyed this and would like to see more, have a chat, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r). And  
> if you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right [here](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1355219789560471554). Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	4. [FE3H] Sylvain/Mercedes: Dance | SFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #4 - [ Sylvain/Mercedes: Dance | SFW ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Sylvain Week 2020 Day 5, "Dance." Prompts can be found [here](https://twitter.com/sylvain_week/status/1225261377960501248)! And please check out the official twitter; there's been sooooo much amazing Sylvain content so far <3
> 
> This was originally going to be something else, about Mercedes encouraging Sylvain to have fun by trying to cheer up other people not having fun at the ball. I had a whole plan for who both of them would end up with at the end of the night, but what you see now ended up feeling so much better. Sometimes, short and sweet is the way to go!
> 
> I may eventually elaborate on this at some point, and take it in the direction I originally intended. But for now, I'm really pleased with how this has turned out. And I hope you are too! <3

The ball is just like every other Sylvain has ever attended. The music is the same, the food is the same, the girls eye him up and whisper to each other every time he casts a glance their way. He'd been hoping for a little bit _more_ from Garreg Mach, prestigious as it is, but even if it's nothing particularly special, this ball is at least a break from training and studying and worrying, and so he decides it's not quite as much of a let-down as he had expected. 

Although Sylvain takes little joy in the search for and swapping of partners, he can admit to himself that at least the dancing itself is fun. It's nice to be able to relax in this way (though he'd take a different sort of dance, one behind closed doors, over this any day). And he's good at it, besides. 

Still, as he bows to another nameless girl who asks him to dance, he finds himself wishing for something a little more exciting. 

Sylvain's gaze wanders as he spins around the dance floor, hand in hand with the girl. She presses herself closer to him he finally looks down into her face, figuring he ought to at least feign interest for a moment. She's pretty, he'll give her that; and maybe she's even worth asking back to his room later on. But then again, as he looks out at the other couples on the floor, he thinks that there are dozens of girls just like her, and maybe they're even prettier. 

The music crescendoes, and he twirls her one last time. The song ends, and so too does Sylvain's passing interest. He passes the girl off with a fake smile and a find-me-later, and takes up the dance again, turning and moving onto the next one.

"Oh, hello, Sylvain." 

Mercedes smiles politely at him as she takes his hand and allows him to put one around her waist. He returns the smile and says, with genuine pleasure in his voice: "Mercedes! Fancy meeting you here."

"It's a ball, Sylvain," she replies, amused - as if that were the answer to every question ever asked. Sylvain can't help but laugh himself, quiet and fond. It's strange how she can so easily draw a real smile from him, when so many have tried and failed tonight alone. 

"So it is. Still, I didn't expect to see you on the dance floor quite as much as I have. You're a popular lady tonight, Mercedes."

He twirls her, and her skirt unfurls wide around her, like a flower's petals blooming in the sun. "Am I? I hadn't noticed. I just like dancing."

"I can tell," Sylvain says. And it's true, really; her face is flushed beautifully in the warm light, her movements are loose and fluid, and her smile stretches from ear to ear, so different from the gentle and subdued one she normally wears. He wishes he could see her like this more often. 

He pulls her back, and she takes his shoulder once again. "I can tell you do, too," she says, and her smile fades a little. "Even though you don't seem to be having much fun."

Although his eyes go wide a second, Sylvain is careful not to let his surprise show any further. He's quick, as ever, to put a proper smile in place. "Me? Not having fun?" He does his best to sound affected - or affronted, maybe, but he drops the act rather quickly. He's never been able to hide from her. "What makes you say that?" 

"Your eyes." She twirls again, moving with the swell of the music. "You've hardly looked at any of the girls you've danced with tonight."

He doesn’t answer. Can’t answer, really, because she’s right. 

“It’s okay,” Mercedes says, blessedly saving him from having to reflect too hard. “I understand. These sorts of things make me uncomfortable, too.” 

A harsh breath slips past Sylvain’s lips unbidden. A humourless laugh for a humourless truth. “Yeah. I suppose you would, being made to dance with a bunch of would-be suitors you have no interest in.” 

Mercedes nods. The smile on her face is all but gone, now. “Yes. But this ball isn’t like that. Not for me,” she says, and then she turns her eyes upward to him, bright and sincere. “And it doesn’t have to be for you, either.” 

The music stops. Mercedes slips from Sylvain’s grasp, moving further and further from him, until only their fingertips touch, his left to her right. It’s time to switch partners. 

He pulls her back in instead. 

“Oh my!” She giggles. “Haven’t had enough?” 

“I could never get enough of you,” Sylvain says. Mercedes takes his hand, and this time, he lets her lead.

“Oh, but of course,” she says. And that’s all Sylvain needs to hear, really, because for the first time that night, the ball is no longer about the girls, or the politics, or even the dancing. It’s about him, and her, and the two of them together, finding solace in someone who understands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to make a request, please check my [writing blog](https://intim3ate.tumblr.com) and submit there (though I can't guarantee I'll be able to do everything!). I also post WIPs and snippets/progress/previews of other things I'm working on!
> 
> If you enjoyed this and would like to see more, have a chat, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r). And  
> if you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right [here](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1355219789560471554). Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	5. [FE3H] Claude/Felix: Lies | SFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #5 - [ Claude/Felix: Lies | SFW ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I asked for some warmup claudelix prompts to be sent to my curiouscat, and was sent this: "claudelix prompt! hmm idea should include: pewter, lies, misplacing something"
> 
> Thank you anon! I loved it <3

"Is this what you're looking for?" 

Felix holds the dagger between his thumb and finger. The tip dangles above the floor, directly above his feet, swaying precariously in his hold.

Claude looks up from where he kneels by his own bedside. He withdraws his hand from under the mattress, letting it fall to his lap as he regards Felix appreciatively, albeit suspiciously. 

Claude smiles his favourite fake smile as he gets to his feet. "It is, in fact." He steps toward the door, toward Felix, and holds his hand out expectantly. "I hope you plan on returning it." 

Wordlessly, Felix places the decorative pewter hilt in Claude's hand. His touch lingers a moment too long - purposely long enough for Claude to curl his fingers around it and brush against his own. It's almost like they're holding hands, and Felix hates himself, just a little, for wishing that was what they were doing instead of... this. 

He pulls away. Looks past Claude's shoulder. Not at him, never at him, not when this is already so difficult.

"You're leaving Fódlan," he says. A statement, not a question. 

Claude sighs through his nose, and his smile expands as he backs up first one step, then two. "And why would I do that?" he asks. "I've just united it. It'd be a shame to leave now and find out all that hard work has gone to waste." 

It's not a lie. Felix knows a lie when he hears one. He's been surrounded by liars all his life, after all, both by choice and by obligation. 

Sylvain is a liar. Felix's father had been one. Dimitri had been, too. And now Claude. Always Claude.

Felix grits his teeth, spits out his answer as he turns his bitter gaze to the floor: "Fódlan was never your goal. Not all of it." 

He feels Claude come close, sees the tips of his boots in the corner of his vision. Felix stubbornly refuses to look at him properly, even as a hand brushes against his jaw. 

"Figured me out, have you?" Claude laughs. Quiet, sad, amused. 

"I've always known." And Felix doesn't know why he does it - why he surges forward and presses their lips together. Maybe it's because this is his last chance, and it's better than saying goodbye. Maybe it's because it _is_ goodbye. Maybe it's just, simply, that he wants to distract himself from this new, all-too-familiar sense of grief.

Claude kisses him back, parts his lips to let Felix in. He's not aggressive - Claude is too guilty to be, this time - but Felix is, pushing him against the nearest wall and holding him there, an arm pressed sideways across his collar and fingers digging into his hip. He pushes, hard, waits for Claude to push back. 

But when he does, it's not what Felix expects. 

Claude slips the dagger into the hand by his neck. He closes Felix's fingers over it, holds them there - makes sure Felix knows that this is what he wants. 

He pulls away, smile bitter on Felix's tongue. 

"Keep it," Claude says, grip tightening over Felix's. "Consider it a gift." 

Felix opens his eyes and tries to push it away, but Claude has already slipped out from beneath him, hands behind his head to prevent Felix from returning the weapon. 

"I want no charity from you," Felix spits. 

Claude laughs. "It's not charity," he says. He steps close again, once he's certain Felix won't try to return the dagger. He takes Felix's chin in one hand, kisses his cheek, and whispers in his ear: "I fully intend on getting it back someday." 

He lets go, brushes past Felix as he exits the bedroom, leaving him completely alone. Felix clutches the dagger to his chest. "You will," he whispers to himself. A vow he knows, even now, will be broken. 

But that's okay. Felix has always known that he's a liar, too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to make a request, please check my [writing blog](https://intim3ate.tumblr.com) and submit there (though I can't guarantee I'll be able to do everything!). I also post WIPs and snippets/progress/previews of other things I'm working on!
> 
> If you enjoyed this and would like to see more, have a chat, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r). And  
> if you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right [here](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1355219789560471554). Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	6. [FE3H] Dorothea/Edelgard: Body Worship | NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #6 - [ Dorothea/Edelgard: Body Worship | NSFW ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Kinktober Day 27 - Body Worship.
> 
> Thank you Sparrow for the suggestion!! I love Edelthea...

It takes a long time for Dorothea to convince Edelgard to bare herself to her. She’s not surprised -- Edelgard is always so careful about keeping up appearances. It isn’t quite out of vanity -- Dorothea knows vanity well, after all, having been witness to it so often in her life -- but it isn’t quite shyness, either. It’s insecurity, one Dorothea doesn’t quite understand when Edelgard is the most beautiful woman she’s ever laid eyes on, but she is patient all the same, waiting for the day when her emperor is ready to finally, finally allow Dorothea to see her for everything she is. 

When that day finally arrives and Dorothea lays Edelgard down against the bed, she finally understands. 

They’re all scarred. The war to unite Fodlan had taken a toll on all of them, in some way or another. She had seen firsthand how terrible it had been -- how many people had lost their lives to injury and infection, and how many had lived through it. She remembers each face that looked up at her from the infirmary beds, smiling through the pain as she sang them lullabies and Manuela had knitted their flesh together with magic. 

But when she slips off Edelgard’s dress, pushing the skirts of it up her thighs and over her stomach, Dorothea realizes that even those wounds had been nothing.

Edelgard’s body is riddled with scars. Raised flesh criss-crosses her skin, leaving almost nothing untouched or unmarred. Cuts and punctures and pockmarks everywhere, from weapons and arrows that had cut through the cracks in her armor; twisted, burned, and bubbling skin where magic had slipped through the cracks in her armor.

But upon her body are more than just the scars of warfare. These marks have been left behind by something closer, more personal, each cut deliberate and carved with care. Dorothea does not know what kind of person would do something like this, would take their time slicing someone open and leaving behind such terrible scars, but she prays that if she ever finds out, she has a sword in one hand and a spell sparking in the other. 

Edelgard tries to cover herself. Her arm comes up to her breast; her legs twist together. She tries to turn, but Dorothea stops her with a hand on the side of her face. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know I am not--” 

“No, Edie.” Dorothea ducks down to kiss her. “Never apologize.” 

Maybe she can’t protect Edelgard from whatever had hurt her, but Dorothea can at least ensure that she knows, now, that she is safe. 

She presses her lips to each scar in turn. Beneath her, Edelgard’s muscles twitch and flutter; she squirms, whimpering so softly Dorothea almost doesn’t hear her. 

“Don’t worry,,” she says, mouth trailing down the inside of Edelgard’s thigh. “I’m going to take care of you.” 

She pulls away and leans back to kneel between Edelgard’s legs. Dorothea is rewarded for her gentle words by her emperor looking up at her through thick white lashes, a flush on her face and lips parted prettily around the knuckle she’s taken between her teeth.

It’s so different from when she kneels at the Adrestian throne. Dorothea is no less happy to serve her emperor now, no less in love with her now that she can see her every fault and scar laid bare before her eyes -- but seeing her like this, vulnerable and unsure and so unlike the strong, stoic emperor that had lead Fodlan to its unification… it makes something in Dorothea shift. It reminds her that she and Edelgard are the same, really: that underneath their facades, they are human after all. Two scared little girls who grew up to hide their scars and sit upon their thrones at the top of the world.

And yet there are no thrones here, no people to kneel before Edelgard or stand and applaud Dorothea as she gazes out across the stage. It’s just the two of them, alone in this quiet room. 

Dorothea slides a reverent finger between Edeglard’s legs. She traces the seam of her cunt, smearing the slick that has gathered there, and dips between them. Edelgard whimpers; her eyes squeeze shut. Her breaths come out short and harsh, and for a moment Dorothea is worried she’s frightened her lover. 

“Shh, shh…” She leans forward, bracing herself on an elbow and bowing her head to kiss the tension from Edelgard’s brow. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” 

Edelgard relaxes. Her eyes flutter open. She gazes hazily at Dorothea and reaches up to bury her fingers in the thick hair at the back of Dorothea’s head. 

“Yes,” she says. “I know, Dorothea. I trust you.” 

She smiles. Dorothea kisses her, long and sweet and soft. Even when Edelgard’s lips part in a gasp as she’s penetrated at last, Dorothea stays, happy to remain where she’s needed until her emperor calms down. 

And so, when Edelgard is the first to pull away, Dorothea is not surprised. They share another smile, private in their four-poster bed, and move together as one.

Edelgard is not a quiet lover. The sounds she makes as Dorothea slides a finger in and out of her are like sweet music -- the first movement in an aria, building up to so much more. Dorothea commits these moans and keens and whimpers to memory, weaving them into a melody in her mind and composing a score around every little clench, every little thrust. 

She adds another finger and watches as Edelgard becomes unraveled. Even like this, in her unbridled passion, Edelgard moves gracefully. She’s more beautiful and elegant than any dancer or performer Dorothea has ever seen, and for a moment she wonders what she’s done to deserve something so wonderful. What right has she to be the only one to see Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg like this -- to be the only one to touch her so intimately?

Edelgard comes on Dorothea’s fingers, a broken sob on her lips. Dorothea kisses away the tears, one by one, and withdraws her hand. She cleans it off and gathers Edelgard up in her arms to hold her close as she lays them both flat against the bed. 

Dorothea breathes in deeply. She buries her nose in Edelgard’s lovely soft hair and lets her eyes follow the loose strands splaying over the pillows. Dorothea strokes it, pulling each and every stray piece back into place. Edelgard takes such good care of her hair, after all. It would be a shame for it to get tangled. 

Edelgard trembles against her. Her hands clench at Dorothea’s back, fingers twitching in time with her quiet, hitching sobs. Dorothea kisses her forehead, her temple, her cheek, and finally her lips when she turns her head to accept the affection. 

When they pull apart, Edelgard is smiling.

She’s beautiful even through her tears, and she tells Edelgard so, over and over again, between kisses and laughter and her own gentle, stuttering breaths.

If the goddess were real, Dorothea thinks that she must look something like Edelgard in that moment: eyes bright and shining, cheeks pink, lips red and full. Scarred and marked and so, so perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this and think you might like to see more, have a chat, or would like to get to know me, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r).
> 
> If you enjoyed this and would like to see more, have a chat, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r). And  
> if you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right [here](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1355219789560471554). Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	7. [FE3H] Sylvain/Lorenz: Enemies | SFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #7 - [ Sylvain/Lorenz: Enemies | SFW ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for my Spotify top 100 drabbles. The request was for song #33 with a Lorenz ship of my choice -- I chose Sylorenz. The song is "From the Pinnacle to the Pit" by Ghost.

When Lorenz had first seen the blue banners of House Blaiddyd marching steadily toward the Great Bridge of Myrddin, he had been unsurprised. Though he had hoped it would not come to this, he knew that he could not avoid facing his former classmates in battle forever. Sooner or later, the Kingdom was bound to cross the bridge.

It is understandable, but a shame all the same. Their movements put the Alliance at risk, and threatened Gloucester directly. In order to protect his home, this must be done. 

He is resolute in his duty. Even so, when he finds himself face to face with Sylvain Gautier, he finds himself wishing that things had been different.

“So,” Sylvain drawls as he tugs on his horse’s reins. It slows to a stop, and Sylvain faces him, gaze dark and expression unreadable. “You decided to align yourself with the Empire after all. Long way to fall for someone who was so concerned with his position in the Alliance."

"And what would you know of it?" Lorenz snaps back. Magic thrums in his veins, begging to be let out. But Sylvain is - well, he's not a friend, and he's no longer merely a rival, either. He's something else entirely, something Lorenz has already begun to mourn, even before it has been lost. "You have never once thought to concern yourself with matters befitting your rank, nor what would be best for your people. What would you know of the decisions I've made?" 

Sylvain snorts - a derisive, ugly noise. "I know they're not yours."

Lorenz's grip on his lance tightens. He says nothing; Sylvain laughs, the sound grating in his ears. 

“First your father, now the Empire. I may not give a damn about my family name, or this stupid Crest of mine, but at least I’m not some idiot lapdog. You’re always going on and on about nobility and duty; do you think there’s going to be a place for you in Edelgard’s new world order?”

Lorenz’s lip curls. “Whether there is a place for me or not, it is not for my own sake that I am concerned. I fight to fulfill my duty to those who need me.” 

“And that’s why you chose the Empire over the Alliance.” Sylvain’s eyes narrow. “You betrayed your friends to protect your people, is that it?” 

“I only do what must be done.”

“And you’re willing to put your loved ones to death to do it,” Sylvain spits. He looks to the side a moment later, unable to meet Lorenz’s eye. “I would rather die than be in your position. Heh. At least one of us is going to get our way today.”

And though Lorenz had been poised to strike, ready to do what was required of him to protect his home, he falters at Sylvain's words. In one moment, all the tension in Lorenz’s body falls away, rendering him weak and empty but for the cold that seeps through his veins. Seeing the pain in Sylvain's eyes, Lorenz wonders if his heart has, indeed, turned to ice in his chest. 

Lorenz does not want to do this. He does not want to think about the implications of Sylvain’s words, nor does he want to think about fighting - about  _ killing _ him. Not for the first time, Lorenz wonders if he’s doing the right thing, and if he truly has fallen as far as Sylvain says.

But he must do this. War is no game, and Lorenz refuses to give in to sentimentality. A noble must always put his duty first - matters of the heart should not cloud his judgement. And so he readies his lance, lifting his head to face Sylvain full on.

“It is far too late for us to dwell on such things,” Lorenz says, a final declaration of his intent. “I have chosen my path, and you yours.” 

“So we have.” Sylvain raises his weapon, too. The Lance of Ruin twitches in his hold, frightening as ever. “You know, I should have tried to court you properly back then. Maybe things would have turned out differently.” He laughs humorlessly, his smile thin and full of regret. “Maybe you’d be here, on this side of the bridge, fighting to take back what’s yours instead of waiting for it to be stripped away.” 

“Perhaps,” Lorenz says. “Or perhaps you would be by my side, instead.” 

“I doubt it.” Sylvain tugs his horse’s reins, guiding her to face Lorenz. “But I guess we’ll never know.”

He kicks his horse. Lorenz spurs his on as well, ready to meet Sylvain’s final challenge - and best him once and for all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this and think you might like to see more, have a chat, or would like to get to know me, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r).
> 
> If you enjoyed this and would like to see more, have a chat, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r). And  
> if you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right [here](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1355219789560471554). Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	8. [FE3H] Claude/Felix: Regrets | SFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #8 - [ Claude/Felix: Regrets | SFW ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for my Spotify top 100 drabbles. I was asked to write Claude/Felix with song #42, which happened to be "Zombie" by the Cranberries. I was... shocked at how well it fit them, actually. 
> 
> !! THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MENTION OF CHARACTER DEATH. Please proceed carefully.

Claude is quiet, tonight. Contemplative. Felix thinks he likes him best when he’s quiet, when he’s not joking or teasing or wearing a mask to hide how dire his situation is. He’d worn that smile in Derdriu, forcing it even as he’d fled for his life. 

Fake, fake, fake. Felix had hated it.

Still, it’s odd that there’s nothing on his face now, even in the face of victory. No smile, no frown. It’s irritating, and so very  _ Claude _ \-- or perhaps so very  _ Khalid _ , as he had introduced himself upon finalizing their contract. 

Prince Khalid of Almyra. Soon to be King Khalid of Almyra, as it were. 

“What are you thinking about?” he asks at last.

Claude meets Felix’s gaze evenly. He’s leaning against the wall, simply watching as Felix sharpens his sword, even though he has no need to. The battle has been won, his duty fulfilled with little bloodshed and little for Felix to dull his blade on. The job had been long, and  _ boring _ , and worst of all, it had given Felix room to breathe, time to think.

“Nothing important,” Claude says now, his gaze as light as his tone. “Just that I wish we didn’t have to meet this way.” 

Felix glances back down at his sword. He drags the whetstone along it, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the blade itself. “You could have hired any mercenary for this,” he says. It’s not what Claude means.

“I could have,” Claude agrees.

“Then why didn’t you?” 

Something sad crosses his face at those words -- something Felix doesn’t want to think about. But Claude smiles all the same, that flicker of regret vanishing as quickly as it came. “Leonie was unavailable.” 

Felix’s lip curls. He remembers the sight of her at Gronder Field as she’d charged toward him atop her horse, bow drawn and face contorted in rage.  _ How could you? _ She had shouted.  _ How could you turn on your friends and fight for someone who wants to kill them?  _

He hadn’t answered her then. All he had done was duck out of the way of her arrow, draw one of his own, and shoot her off the back of her horse. She’d spat at him in her final moments -- more blood on his boot, more blood on his hands -- and he’d ended her life, killed her quickly so she wouldn’t have to suffer. He had not yet been the merciless killer he would become in the years to follow. 

“Besides,” Claude says, cutting through the memory with a soft voice and a stern command for attention, “I didn’t want ‘any mercenary.’ I wanted you.” 

He walks over to Felix then, crouches down before the bench he’s seated on. The sharpened blade of Felix’s sword is close enough to cut into him. All he would have to do is slide it forward, just a little…

He doesn’t. He lets Claude kiss him instead, a hand at his jaw and a mouth against his own. Against his better judgement, Felix closes his eyes. He expects a knife at his throat; what he gets instead is a tongue at his lips, seeking entry. He grants it readily and allows Claude to push him back, press him up against the wall, kneel between his legs. 

Felix sets the sword aside and takes Claude’s face in his hands, holding him closer than he’s held anyone in years. He feels Claude’s breath against his cheek, a gentle exhale through his nose, and something inside Felix cracks. It does not break, not completely, but he can feel the telltale burn in the back of his throat, the heat behind his closed eyelids. 

Claude pulls away. Felix’s eyes remain shut, and he lowers his head, hiding from… what, exactly, he isn’t sure. But that’s what he does best -- he avoids, he runs, he kills. 

“I’ll be ascending the throne in one week’s time,” Claude says. He stands, and Felix opens his eyes at last, missing the motion. “You’re welcome to stay until then. And after, if you like.” 

Felix picks up his sword again. He drags the whetstone along it. He doesn’t need to. There’s nothing left to fight here. Claude has won, and any threats to his rule have been eliminated. 

“No,” Felix says. “There’s nothing for me here.” 

He misses the look that crosses Claude’s face, but he can feel it all the same, boring through his skin, as if Claude can see his very heart. “There’s nothing for you there, either,” he says. “There are no more wars to fight, Felix.” 

“There are always wars to fight.” 

He looks up at last. Claude gazes back, expression neutral. He looks as though he wants to say something, but in the end, he simply turns and walks away. “I thought having you fight by my side would lay the ghosts to rest,” he says lightly, as though speaking to the very air. “I didn’t think it would add another to my list of regrets.”

And then he leaves, and Felix is left behind, once again, staring at the space where someone used to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this and think you might like to see more, have a chat, or would like to get to know me, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r).
> 
> If you enjoyed this and would like to see more, have a chat, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r). And  
> if you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right [here](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1355219789560471554). Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	9. [FE3H] Claude+Sylvain: Convictions | SFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #9 - [ Claude + Sylvain: Convictions | SFW ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for my Spotify Top 100 drabbles. This one was for Claudevain + song #56, which was "Karma" by Cyhra. I ended up really liking this drabble, so I may actually come back and clean it up to post as a longer fic eventually... we'll see!
> 
> This was supposed to be shippier than it is, but it ended up reading more platonic. Interpret it how you like! I am choosing to believe they are in love and that they will kiss when all is said and done.

“Checkmate.” 

Sylvain looks down at the board, head in hand. Hubert sits across the table from him, arms folded smugly over his chest. “You can look all you like, Gautier, it won’t change a thing.” 

“Yeah.” Sylvain leans back, letting out a deep breath. “You got me. Huh. Didn’t see that coming at all.” 

“Really? Because I noticed him setting that move up about five turns ago,” Claude says. He nudges Sylvain out of his chair so he can take his place across Hubert. The two of them rearrange the pieces while Sylvain takes a seat next to Edelgard, who smiles and sits up just a little bit straighter, proud of her classmate's victory. 

“Excellent work, Hubert,” she says, her smile just as smug as his.

At the table, Claude smiles, too. “Look at us,” he says. “All three houses getting along and enjoying some good, friendly competition. No regard at all for where we’re from or what we have.” He sighs wistfully, turning his head skyward and smiling up at the clouds. “If only things were like this outside of the monastery, too.” 

Something in the air changes, then. Sylvain feels it like an icicle in his chest, piercing something soft and vulnerable that he hadn’t realized was there -- or that he'd tried to bury, long ago. Claude's works conjure thoughts of Miklan -- his borther, his flesh and blood -- cast aside and discarded because he didn’t have a Crest. He thinks too of Dedue, scorned and hated for having the audacity to be born in Duscur. And he thinks of Claude, too, smiling at the sky as though he hasn't a care in the world despite the whispers that follow him everywhere. 

Claude, who came from nowhere, bringing his misfit band of classmates together under his haphazard leadership to winning the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, and then sharing that victory with everyone else. 

Hubert and Edelgard exchange a look -- a quick, fleeting glance into each other’s eyes that Sylvain almost doesn’t notice. 

“Yes,” Edelgard says, her voice surprisingly soft. “If only.” 

And Sylvain finds that he agrees. Something changes in him, that day, something he won't come to realize until years later.

* * *

The memory of that day plays over and over in Sylvain’s mind in the march leading up to Gronder Field. He grips his lance tight as he thinks of the look Edelgard and Hubert shared. Of what it had meant at the time -- the sign it had been. And he thinks of Claude again, too, smiling up at the sky as he’d dreamed of a day when status and parentage would mean nothing.

There’s no trace of that smile on Claude’s face as he fights through throngs of soldiers, both friend and foe alike. And it’s  _ wrong --  _ w rong for them to be fighting, wrong for him to be here, wrong for Claude’s face to be drawn tight and for his clothes to be soaked in blood and for him to be fighting in this war when all he’d ever wanted was for everyone to get along.

And when Sylvain looks across the field to see the professor fighting at Claude’s side and the Knights of Seiros behind them, he realizes something. He realizes that Claude is fighting for that future. The one he’d envisioned on that lazy afternoon playing chess at Garreg Mach -- the one he will achieve, with his friends at his back and his convictions to guide him.

The same ones Sylvain had given up on years ago.

Charging forward isn’t so much a decision Sylvain makes as it is instinct kicking in. He spurs his horse on, across the field and away from his men, from his friends, from his  _ king _ . He rides through smoke and fire and fog, cutting a bloody path through everything and everyone he has known until this point, and keeps his eyes fixed on the sky. 

On the future. 

Claude sees him coming. He nocks an arrow and points it at Sylvain, the wyvern he rides banking in the sky and whirling around to protect its master. It leaves him open, in that split second, for an enemy archer to point their bow at his back and put an end to Claude's ambitions. 

Sylvain kills the archer. 

He throws the javelin before he even registers he’s holding it, and they go down with a shout, red armor nearly indistinguishable from the blood seeping into the earth. Claude follows the arc of the javelin with his eyes and sees his assailant go down; it gives him pause, and he looks from the body to Sylvain, a look of comprehension dawning on his face as he puts the pieces together. 

Sylvain looks up at him, a wild grin spreading across his face. “Stay alive, yeah?” he calls, hoping his voice carries over the din. “My reputation is on the line! It wouldn’t do for me to let you die in my first battle under your command, would it?” 

And though he smiles too, Claude doesn't miss a beat. “Not at all!” he calls back, saluting Sylvain with two fingers to his temple. “And I expect you to stay alive, too! We’re gonna have a nice, long talk after this, you hear?” 

“Wouldn’t miss it!” 

Sylvain tugs his horse’s reins and turns her around, ready to charge back into the fray. And as he rides out, he remembers Claude’s words, spoken to the sky on that sunny afternoon, once more: _ "No regard at all for where we’re from or what we have. If only things were like this outside of the monastery, too." _

They can’t go back to that time, to the days when they would sit around playing games and engaging in friendly competition. And though Sylvain longs for those days -- just as he knows Claude does -- he knows they’re gone, surviving only as memories. Clinging to the past has brought nothing but ruin. To him, to his friends, to _Faerghus,_ and  It’s time to break free of the cycle. 

If that means that Sylvain has to kill the person he used to be, the person who remained by the side of a dying king and held fast to the belief that things would improve on their own, then so be it. He will survive this battle, and he will survive this war, and he will do whatever it takes to see a new world come to fruition.

And he will stand by Claude’s side until it does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this and think you might like to see more, have a chat, or would like to get to know me, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r).
> 
> If you enjoyed this and would like to see more, have a chat, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r). And  
> if you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right [here](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1355219789560471554). Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	10. [FE3H] Claude/Sylvain: yandere!Claude | SFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #10 - [ Claude/Sylvain: yandere!Claude | SFW ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there is one thing I can be judged for, it is my not so secret love of yandere characters. I'm sorry.
> 
> Anyway Claude being possessive is fun so maybe I'm not that sorry after all.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING FOR: Claude Posioning/Drugging Sylvain

“Do you have any idea who did it?” Claude asked, setting the tray on the bedside table. He sat at Sylvain’s side and looked him in the eye as he waited patiently for an answer.  
  
“Not a clue.” It wasn’t entirely true. Sylvain could think of a lot of people who might have wanted him dead. Most of them were in Faerghus, but that didn’t make it impossible for them to slip poison in his drink in Derdriu. Sylvain knew how political assassinations worked, after all.  
  
“Hm.” Claude didn’t pry further than that. He helped Sylvain sit up and tipped the glass of water he’d brought against Sylvain’s lips. Sylvain drank eagerly, the cool liquid soothing his burning mouth and gliding down his parched throat. It was sweet – sweeter than water should be, but Sylvain thought nothing of it. He was too thirsty to question it.  
  
When he finished, Claude set the glass aside. Sylvain’s eyelids felt heavy. It took a lot of energy, these days, to stay awake. He didn’t know why. Shouldn’t he have recovered by now?  
  
“You can sleep,” Claude said. Sylvain’s eyes flickered up from the bedsheets, where Claude’s hand rested by his lap, to Claude’s face. He was smiling.

He always smiled when he came to check on Sylvain.  
  
“Nah.” Sylvain shook his head. “I do enough sleeping.”  
  
“You know that’s just your body trying to help you recover, right?”  
  
Sylvain hummed. He did know that. Funny, though, that with as much sleep as he’d been getting, his body was still just _trying to recover._ “Sure. You’d think I’d see some improvement by now, though.”  
  
Something flickered across Claude’s face, gone as soon as it had appeared. Sylvain couldn’t tell if he had imagined it or not. He was so tired.  
  
But Claude reached out for him, the back of his hand brushing against Sylvain’s cheek. It was cool. Smooth. Pleasant. “That particular poison is lethal in the right dosage,” he said. “It should have killed you. You’re lucky it happened while I was around, or you’d have been a goner.”  
  
Sylvain nodded. He leaned into Claude’s touch, sighing because it felt good against his heated skin, and because he missed being touched. It had been so long now.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Lucky.”  
  
He didn’t fight it when Claude laid him down, nor did he protest when Claude pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Just sleep,” he whispered. And what could Sylvain do but comply? He nodded hazily and let his eyes slide shut, relaxing into his pillow as Claude gently stroked his hair out of his face.  
  
“Good boy,” Sylvain heard Claude murmur, just before he drifted off. “You stay right here and do as you’re told. I’ll keep you safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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